


The Greatest Thing You’ll Ever Learn

by nerdylittledude



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Moulin Rouge AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdylittledude/pseuds/nerdylittledude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Thing You’ll Ever Learn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plantainleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/gifts).



> Moulin Rouge destiel au, commissioned for the lovely [plantainleaf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/works)/[clotpoleofthelord](http://clotpoleofthelord.tumblr.com/) as part of fundraising for Hope 2 Haiti! Extra love to her for being flexible and going with a writing whim I had instead of her original commission. 
> 
> In the future I might turn this into a series. Haven't decided yet. Either way, I have lots of other writing obligations to fulfill (ie, Astral Projection and the USV Extras) before I even think about a new project. So for now you get a fun one-off. Enjoy!
> 
> (I haven't corrected this for errors yet, apologies in advance for any spelling/grammar problems! just wanted to get it posted. Also, POV occasionally switches between asterisks because I'm greedy and couldn't just pick one.)

The year was 1989, and he was called the _Sparkling Diamond._

The first time Castiel laid eyes on him, he was struck heavily with the conviction that the name was perfect. He’d scoffed quietly to himself at the cliché when he’d first heard it – he was a _writer_ , after all – but the moment the lights dimmed and the spotlight shone for the darling of the Moulin Rouge’s dancers, his skepticism took flight, escaping through his mouth as it fell open. 

True to the grandiose and ostentatious spirit of the Moulin Rouge, the Sparkling Diamond was adorned with every manner of jewel, with white and silver sparkles embroidered into his waist-cincher corset, and glitter spread across his bare chest and shoulders. His black leather pants hugged his hips and legs in a fine-tailored line, and he wore a black top hat trimmed with jewels. While the shimmer and shine had a feminizing effect on many of the slighter boys at the Moulin Rouge, the Diamond was broad-shouldered and well-built; all the exposed skin and scant, form-fitting attire only accentuated his masculinity. 

He swung from the ceiling on a swing and reaped the hearts of every man and woman in the crowd, winking and smiling a thief’s smile, charm and charisma rolling off him in waves. Castiel was transfixed. Beautiful though the man’s body was, Castiel could not tear his gaze from his face. _Perhaps the diamonds are his eyes,_ Castiel mused silently to himself. He made a mental note to remember that line for his writing.

Beside him, Gabriel was watching the show with a drunken grin on his lips. The shorter man was the reason Castiel was here at all. They’d been strangers all of a day ago. Everything had changed in a blur. Where a day ago Castiel had been all alone in Paris, with only his typewriter for company, he now found himself at the Moulin Rouge, set out to pitch his production to the one of the stars – when only two days ago, he’d not had a production idea at all. Gabriel was, in many ways, a whirlwind, but Castiel was infinitely grateful for him.

“The men and women here are all very beautiful,” Castiel remarked as softly as he could manage while still being heard over the music. His gaze never broke from the Sparkling Diamond, who was now making his way through the crowd, taking tips left and right and flirting with the patrons of the night club. 

“Of course they are,” Gabriel said with a roll of his eyes. “It’s the Moulin Rouge. That’s Dean Winchester, by the way. Pretty one, isn’t he?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes as the dancer briefly slipped from view behind several people, trying to catch another glimpse of him. 

“Dean? He isn’t French?” The man moved and carried himself with all the sensuality and romance that Castiel had come to associate almost exclusively with the French – but Dean was an English name.

“Oh, he’s French alright,” Gabriel said dismissively. “I think he immigrated as a kid with his little brother or something. But don’t let that fool you – he’s French.”

Castiel nodded absently, eyes still fixed on the radiating light that was Dean Winchester. After a slow moment of his mind churning with gears stuck on the sights around him, he turned quickly to Gabriel, eyes wide.

“Dean is – this man is who I am to convince to take on _Supernatural, Supernatural?_ ” 

Gabriel’s grin was almost wicked.

“Sure is. And because I am, indisputably, the greatest guy in Paris, I’ve arranged a little get-together for the two of you. Alone.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Castiel’s eyes widened.

“To – recite poetry,” Castiel said slowly, clarifying, but Gabriel just smirked wider still and turned back to the center stage. Dean was gone and new dancers had come to take his place. 

Castiel loosened his tie and took a deep breath. The air in the Moulin Rouge was suddenly much too hot.

*

“So you’re saying this duke guy’s gonna make me a real actor.”

The backstage changing room of the Moulin Rouge was abuzz with movement, with men and women changing outfits rapidly and make-up being applied. Dean sat at a vanity while two women applied subtle stage make-up to his face and worked more glitter into his shoulders. He’d long since gotten over the whole _painted whore_ thing. If he was going to be a whore, he might as well do the damn thing right.

Michael stood watching with a faint smile on his lips, donning an outfit most closely resembling a circus ringmaster’s. He was the owner of the Moulin Rouge, dark-haired and, as was often commented, beautiful enough to be a dancer himself if he wanted to be. Dean was his prized possession. There was a certain affection between them, though it was clear it was their shared love for the Moulin Rouge that bound them.

“If you can convince Zachariah to invest,” Michael said, running his hand through his dark hair as his smile broadened, “he could turn this place into a theatre. You’d be the star, Dean. You could tell your brother what you do for a living, for once.”

Dean turned sharply from the women doing his makeup to glare at Michael.

“You don’t talk about my brother, Michael.”

Michael rolled his eyes dramatically and ruffled Dean’s hair affectionately.

“I know, I know. No talk of the mysterious floppy-haired little prince you keep locked away. I tell you though, Dean, if he’s anywhere near as pretty as you, I’d make so much –”

“Michael,” Dean cautioned, his voice tight, and Michael smiled but let the subject drop.

“This investor could really change things for all of us, Dean,” he said gently, switching gears into a much more serious tone. “Sleep with him. Blow his mind. Get into his pants, then into his heart – and then into his wallet.”

A cocky smile crept onto Dean’s lips and he arched his eyebrows playfully. “So you’re saying the fate of the Moulin Rouge relies on how good a lay I am?”

Lulled into relaxing by Dean’s confidence, Michael’s serious expression ebbed away. 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But I think I chose the right man for the job.”

Dean sat back in his seat and rolled his shoulders.

“Consider his world rocked.”

*

The Diamond cut through the crowded dance floor like wolf stalking prey, and each step that brought him closer made it more and more apparent that Castiel was his target. Dean smiled and something surged in Castiel, fluttering up from his stomach and settling heavy in his throat, making it go dry. The music was loud and Dean was addressing the audience, saying _something_ , but it was as though the world had been muted. Dean’s presence alone was much too _loud,_ arrested too many of Castiel’s senses for him to perceive anything else.

“No one mentioned you were hot.”

There was a stunned, breathless moment of Dean being _there,_ in Castiel’s space, looking at him, smiling at him, before Castiel realized that Dean was referring to him. The dancer was no longer addressing the crowd; his voice was quiet, now, and he was speaking to Castiel.

“Me?” Castiel asked unsurely, and Dean’s smiled widened into a grin.

“Handsome _and_ humble? Can’t wait to get my hands on you, man.”

At Castiel’s confused tilt of his head, Dean took his hand and gave it a playful tug.

“You, me, dance floor. I won’t take no for an answer.” To further illustrate the point, he held tight to Castiel’s hand and pulled him forward, onto the dance floor, not waiting for Castiel’s response. Castiel cast a hopeless, futile look over his shoulder at Gabriel, who was grinning ecstatically and flashing him thumbs-up signs.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Castiel said as loudly as he could manage once they reached center-floor. The next song picked up and Dean slipped a hand around Castiel’s waist, settling it in the small of his back, drawing him close. 

“Lucky for you, then,” Dean replied easily, “because I dance well enough for the both of us.”

*

It seemed that a lucky star was looking out for Dean tonight, because the man he needed most desperately to please right now just happened to be the man he _wanted_ most desperately to please. It was a rare treat in this unsavory job of his that he actually got to enjoy his between-the-sheets work, but every now and then Dean was blessed with a customer he couldn’t wait to undress. With big blue eyes under inkblot eyelashes with a head of dark and messy hair to match, the duke definitely fell under that category. Wide-eyed and chap-lipped, he was practically gift-wrapped and addressed out to Dean. 

Dean let his body roll across the duke’s, hips moving to the beat of the music and feet guiding them to the steps of the rest of the dancers. He savored the short gasp that fell from the duke’s lips and followed it up with a grind laced with barely-hidden intentions. He laughed at the duke’s wide-eyed response.

“The Moulin Rouge could really use your vision,” Dean told him, ever mindful of the job at hand and what was at stake. Some of the duke’s discomfort seemed to lift in the slightest at the mention of the show.

“I – thank you, Dean. I… Gabriel suggested a private meeting?”

Dean slipped his other hand around the duke’s waist and shifted his hips again, smiling wickedly all the while.

“Michael suggested the same thing.” He leaned his lips in close to the duke’s ears and spoke quietly for his next words. “And I agree with him.”

The duke’s breath was coming notably shakier now, and Dean counted it as a small victory.

“I appreciate that,” the duke responded, nearly too quiet to be heard under the blare of the music. “A poetry reading in here would be quite difficult.”

… Poetry reading? It was an interesting choice of euphemism, but Dean had been in this business long enough to have heard everything. Gentleman in fancy suits, calling sex a “romp” or a “tango” or a “dinner date”, all choking on calling it what it was. Dean was happy to indulge their silly phrases, even if he preferred to be more on the nose about it. To him it was fucking, plain and simple, nothing romantic about it – but if the duke wanted it to be a _poetry reading_ , it could be a poetry reading.

“I prefer to be alone when I hear poetry,” Dean said easily, keeping his face close to the duke’s, even as his feet had the two of them moving in time to the tempo of the music. To Dean’s surprise, the duke planted his feet firmly and stopped their movement.

“Thank you, Dean. Find me when you’re finished here, please. I don’t care much for dancing.”

*

The look Dean gave Castiel when he slipped from his grasp was an even mixture of shock and disappointment, and for a moment Castiel nearly regretted the decision. It was true that Castiel was not fond of dancing, but the more honest truth was that he could hardly keep his thoughts straight with Dean so close to him. Pitching his play to Dean and reciting his poetry was far too important to muddle with unprofessional thoughts. Castiel could wait.

“Wait,” Dean said, taking Castiel’s hand quickly in both of his. “I’m finished if you’re finished. How about you and me get out of here?”

“You and I,” Castiel corrected automatically, and nearly flinched at the raised eyebrow Dean gave him. “It's – never mind. I don't mind waiting, Dean. I wouldn't want to pull you from the dance floor...”

“Maybe I'm the one pulling,” Dean said with a quirk of his lips, and he gave Castiel's hands a tug. “Let's take this party somewhere private, shall we?”

Something twisted in Castiel's stomach, but he ignored it. 

The club, the people, the repetitive thrum of the music – all were a blur to Castiel as Dean led him through the masses, away from the dance floor and out of the main room of the night club entirely. Castiel followed silently through the halls as Dean led him by the hand through the back halls of the Moulin Rouge. At last, they reached an ornate flight of narrow stairs, which they followed up. It led to a beautiful set of double doors. Dean went through first and held the door open for Castiel, who followed after hesitantly.

The room was as lovely as the rest of the Moulin Rouge, draped in lush and ornate fabrics, all in varying shades of red and gold. There were plush couches and stained glass accents everywhere. A chandelier hung from the ceiling and an array of jeweled candles were scattered around the room. To the side of the room was a screen dressing partition. Directly opposite the door was a wide, heart-shaped window that stretched from floor to ceiling and looked out over Paris. It was this that drew Castiel's attention, and he walked toward it, a faint smile creeping to his lips.

“What a beautiful place to recite poetry,” he said quietly, his voice light with awe. The scene before him was breathtaking. Paris at night was perhaps the only sight in the world half as beautiful as Dean. He stood silently, taking in the overwhelming sights for a long moment. 

When Castiel turned, Dean had disappeared behind the dressing partition. It was lit in a way that created a stark, sharp silhouette, and Castiel caught his breath. Dean was clearly getting undressed.

“Dean?” he said uncertainly, and Dean chuckled.

“Just getting into something a little more comfortable,” he said easily, and Castiel relaxed. This would be much less nerve-wracking if Dean wasn't wearing his dancing costume. 

– Or, rather, it would have been, had Dean and Castiel shared the idea of what “more comfortable” attire was. Dean sauntered out from behind the screen with wearing only a black, form-fitting pair of silk boxer briefs and – for whatever reason – a jeweled, green collar. Castiel couldn't help the sharp breath of air that forced its way from his lips. Dean smirked as he made his way to a small table in the center of the room. 

“We have some of the finest wine in Paris here,” he said easily as he lifted the top of the ice case. “Red or white?”

“If it's all the same to you,” Castiel said hurriedly, “I would prefer to just... begin.” His nerves were shot and he was incredibly uncomfortable; as enraptured as he was with Dean's presence, he couldn't wait to be free of it. It was too much.

Dean arched both eyebrows in surprise, and Castiel wondered if perhaps he'd made the wrong decision. After a moment, though, the dancer just laughed and replaced the lid. 

“Eager, are we?”

“I'm afraid my nerves are getting the best of me.”

Dean crossed the distance between them, then, and before Castiel could register what was going on, Dean was helping him out of his suit jacket, and the way his hands lingered over Dean's shirt had his heart racing yet again. Dean hung the jacket up on a nearby coat hanger and then was back, this time going in for Castiel's tie. This time, Castiel had the presence of mind to stop him, gently placing his hands over Dean's.

“Dean?” he all but whispered, his eyes meeting Dean's in a wide and frantic search. Dean's eyes had an easy casualness to them, and Castiel felt that much more ashamed for his unprofessional feelings.

“I thought a massage might loosen you up,” Dean whispered back, and the tone of his voice had shifted somehow, though Castiel couldn't place what it was that had changed.

“No thank you,” Castiel all but croaked, barely audible, and Dean looked away – but not before Castiel caught what he thought might have been disappointment written in his features. When Dean looked back, though, his expression was playful and almost coy. Castiel's head was reeling.

“To the bed then, tiger?” he asked, letting go of Castiel's tie and smoothing it out. Without waiting for an answer, Dean took to the bed and laid back on it sprawling his body out and jutting his hips, raising his chin to look at Castiel. Castiel nearly tripped standing still, and it took everything in him to shake his head.

“I'd perform better standing up,” he said. Dean's eyes widened and his lips quirked before he scrambled to his feet again. Castiel took several deep breaths and looked at his shoes. He was painfully conscious of Dean's eyes on him, watching, waiting for him to begin. He tried to keep his breathing stable and shut his eyes to ground himself.

When he opened them, Dean was on his knees in front of him.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked, voice flat and expressionless, but tinged with a faint but growing panic. Dean looked up at him with that perfect pair of green eyes.

“You looked like you needed help, uh – finding inspiration, or whatever,” Dean said, sounding unsure.

Castiel shook his head again.

“I just – perhaps it would be easier if you sat down,” Castiel said, and the shock and intrigue on Dean's face was enough to throw him off entirely. Surely it was standard for someone to sit while they listened to poetry?

“You want me sitting for this?” Dean asked slowly, as if to clarify. Castiel bit his lip and nodded. Dean looked positively thrilled then, and Castiel fought the inclination to flee the room entirely. His sense of what was going on was rapidly dwindling.

“Haven't done it this way in a while,” Dean remarked as he took a seat on one of the couches, splaying his legs wide and looking up at Castiel. Castiel looked instead at the wall behind Dean, trying valiantly not to get lost in those eyes again.

“I, uh – I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my –”

“Oh, oh I get it,” Dean said abruptly, running a hand through his hair with an awed expression on his face. “Dirty talk. Okay. I can get into this.”

Castiel chose to ignore him; if he stopped now, he might never get the courage to begin again. “Whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling –”

Dean tilted his head back against the cushions of the couch, exposing his throat as his eyes fell closed. He trailed one hand over his lower stomach and and he rolled his hips. Castiel's breath caught in his throat, but he plowed on, otherwise undeterred. He could no longer speculate about what in the hell was going on because this was simply too important. He had to convince Dean that the play was worth taking on, no matter how riddled his mind was with the goings-on.

“I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my my sweet. I want –” and here Dean cupped himself between the legs and arched off the couch, and Castiel realized in that moment that he had never truly understood the word want “– no world, for beautiful you are my world, my true –” The quietest of moans slipped from Dean's lips, and Castiel spoke his next words with more conviction than he had ever felt.

“You are whatever a moon has always meant.” Dean opened his bright eyes and their gazes met in a static, electric moment. “Whatever a sun will always sing is you.” It hardly felt like a recitation anymore.

“Is you,” Dean echoed, and then he was out of his seat, crossing the room, sliding his arms around Castiel's waist before he knew what was happening. They stood chest to chest, Castiel's heart hammering, tension rolling off him in waves.

“Keep going,” Dean whispered into his ear, and Castiel shuddered with his whole body. Dean groaned softly and rocked into Castiel, but Castiel did as he was told.

“Here is the deepest secret nobody knows,” he whispered, and it was less of a recitation than the true sharing of a secret, “Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide.”

There were lips on Castiel's neck and a hand on the small of his back, but he persisted.

“And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart,” he gasped as a tongue dragged across his skin. Dean's hands were on his tie again, then the buttons of his shirt, and this time he didn't try to stop them. “I carry your heart.”

“I carry it in my heart,” Dean concluded for him as he slipped his hands around Castiel's bare waist beneath his open dress shirt, “and I could really get used to having you around.”

Dean leaned forward so that their foreheads were touching and for a long moment, they just looked at each other, unspeaking, unmoving. Castiel was sure he'd be writing versions of this moment for the rest of his life. Finally, he found his voice.

“Did you like it?” he dared to ask, and Dean laughed, eyes going soft and fond.

“I liked it,” he whispered. “I like you.”

“I like you, too, Dean,” Castiel heard himself responding; he was still in disbelief, his mind and body still not reconciled with the idea that all of this – this feeling, this moment, _everything_ – was truly happening. The look on Dean's face seemed to convey the same happy disbelief, illustrated further with Dean's soft chuckle before he rested his forehead on Castiel's shoulder.

“This is too weird, man,” he said. “What are the odds of some hot poet duke swooping into my place of employment and making me feel so...” his voice trailed off, but when he lifted his head he was smiling again. “All I'm saying is, I can't remember the last time I wanted to kiss someone so badly, alright? I'm not good with the whole words thing like you are.”

Castiel, however, was frowning, his head tilted in confusion as he studied Dean's face.

“Did you say 'duke'?”

“Well, yeah, but that's just, y'know. A bonus. I'm like five seconds away from actual _swooning_ here, dude, cut me some slack on the semantics.”

“I'm not a duke, Dean. I am a writer. I'm... I thought Gabriel told you why I was here?”

“A writer,” Dean said flatly, slipping his hands from Castiel and taking a step back. “Please tell me you're fucking with me.”

Castiel chewed his bottom lip. “There must be some mistake.”

“Come _on,_ ”Dean groaned and, to Castiel's surprise, kicked over a chair in frustration. Castiel stepped back and away from Dean, who was growing increasingly agitated.

“Why can't good shit happen to me? Jesus _Christ._ Of course you're not the duke. Of course. You're a broke, Bohemian 'child of the revolution' with absolutely nothing to offer. Which means – _fuck,_ which means the real duke is probably sitting waiting somewhere – fuck. And even _right now_ I can't stop looking at those stupid blue eyes of yours. I'm gonna be dreaming about them, I bet. Fuck you, Mr. Carry-Your-Heart Douchebag. I didn't ask for this.”

At this blatant abuse of his poetry, Castiel's discomfort gave way to anger. He advanced on Dean, looming as well as he could with the inch or two Dean had over him. 

“Pardon me, Dean Winchester, but _I_ didn't ask for this either,” he snapped, glaring daggers. “I came here to tell you about a play – you're the one who... a minute ago, you said 'duke' was just a bonus. Where did _that_ feeling go?”

Dean scoffed. “Your empty wallet scared it away.”

There came a knock at the door, followed quickly by a young man's voice.

“Dean. The duke is here. He's very eager to see you, if you recall.”

Dean's eyes widened and he looked from the door to Castiel, panic written in his features.

“You have to get out,” he hissed quietly to Castiel. To the door, he said, “One sec, Michael, I'm, uh – I'm not decent.”

“I'm not leaving until you agree to see me again,” Castiel whispered back, voice forceful and surprising the both of them. Michael knocked at the door again, and Dean flinched.

“I sincerely hope that's a joke, my darling diamond.” The man's voice sounded strained and tense this time. “Will you open the door for Zachariah, please?”

“I hate when he calls me that,” Dean muttered absently, which Castiel filed away for later reference. Because there _would_ be a later.

“Get out,” Dean hissed again, but Castiel stood his ground, eyes fixed on Dean, stare unwavering. Dean threw up his hands in exasperation.

“Fine, fine, fine – I'll see you again. Tonight, after the duke leaves, so I can tell you to screw off in both English and French and maybe you'll get it then. Now, out! Out the back door.”

Castiel did as he was told, but not before stealing one last long look at Dean, sealing the image to his memories to go over again and again until their next meeting. Dean _liked_ him. If that much was already secured, Castiel was sure that the rest would fall into place. He held no illusions about the odds stacked against him, of course, but he believed that what was meant to happen would happen. 

Above all things, Castiel believed in love. 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Castiel recites to Dean is "I Carry Your Heart With Me" by E. E. Cummings.


End file.
